Chapter 3: A House of Our Own

After that, my family doted on me even more.

I grew up wrapped in love and homemade quilts, Grandma slipped me extra peach cobbler at supper, whispering, “Don’t tell your mama.” Grandma Carol and Mom would practically compete to take care of me, making my aunts—who had two sons each—green with envy.

The aunts would grumble over potluck casseroles about how "Maddie’s got it made" while trying to hush their rowdy boys. My parents gave up on having a son; all they wanted was to take good care of me.

Mom and Dad said they were blessed, and they meant it. When I was two, Dad got laid off from the factory and decided to start his own handyman business.

He painted the garage door with the words "Miller’s Fix-It-All" and handed out flyers at church and the gas station. Unexpectedly, his first venture didn’t lose money—he paid back all the borrowed funds in just a year.

Dad fixed everything from leaky sinks to stubborn tractors, and neighbors started slipping him extra cash, saying, "Don’t tell your wife!" Soon after, Mom quit her job at the diner to help him, and within another year, they started making a small profit.

Mom handled the books, Dad did the repairs, and I became the self-appointed snack manager. Life at home improved by leaps and bounds, and my parents began thinking about moving to the city. After all, the city offered much better schools and healthcare.

At night, they’d pore over Savannah school district ratings, circling houses in the classifieds with red pen. Early the next morning, Mom carried me out of bed.

I blinked sleepily, still holding my stuffed bunny as she bundled me into overalls. "Maddie, today let’s go with Mom and Dad to Savannah to look at houses, okay?"

I let Mom dress me with my eyes closed, sleepily washing my face in the bathroom.

I yawned as she dabbed my cheeks, and together we padded into the kitchen. After eating the breakfast Grandma Carol had prepared—scrambled eggs and toast—the three of us set off.

The toast was a little burnt, but the eggs were buttery and bright. Dad carried me to the car, and we set out down I-16 as the sun crept over the horizon. In the past few years of running their business, my parents had become familiar with some well-known neighborhoods in Savannah.

They drove slow, peering at street signs and making notes in a spiral-bound notebook. At the first real estate office, I instinctively disliked the place.

It smelled like air freshener and new carpet. The homes here were considered upper-middle-class, and the model home was bustling with buyers.

Well-dressed folks milled around, sipping coffee from paper cups. While my parents listened to the realtor, I sat in Mom’s lap, glancing around.

I kicked my feet, bored, tracing patterns on the polished floor with my sneaker. Just then, a well-dressed couple walked in with a little girl.

The couple looked familiar—the man was tall and handsome, the woman gentle and beautiful, but her face was pale as if she wasn’t well.

They looked like they’d stepped out of a magazine ad for minivans, except the woman’s smile was fragile, barely there. The girl wore a princess dress and delicate white shoes, but her face was sullen.

Her arms were crossed, lips pursed, eyes sharp beneath a fringe of dark hair. As soon as the sales manager spotted them, she hurried over. "Mr. Carter, Mrs. Carter, what brings you here today? Is this your daughter?"

She bent down with the fake cheerfulness of someone desperate for a sale. The little girl shot her an indifferent glance.

She looked right through the woman, her stare icy and unimpressed. Mr. Carter replied, "We want to pick another house ourselves today. My wife doesn’t feel comfortable in the one we bought before."

His tone was crisp, almost businesslike. Seeing Mrs. Carter cough softly, the manager nodded and personally began showing them around.

She took the Carters’ coats with an eager smile, chattering as they disappeared into the next room. But the little girl didn’t seem close to her parents—she just sat alone, looking impatient.

She fiddled with her shoes, scowling, her attention drifting to the window like she wished she could run outside and leave them all behind. My parents got up, ready to tour the model homes, holding me in their arms.

Mom hoisted me on her hip, Dad took her purse, and we shuffled after the realtor. As Mom lifted me, the family beside us noticed us too.

Mrs. Carter paused, her gaze lingering on me. Mr. Carter followed her eyes, and both of them looked startled for a moment before returning to normal. But their eyes kept following us until we left.

It made me shiver, though I couldn’t say why. My parents were quite satisfied with the house they saw.

Mom squeezed Dad’s hand and whispered that the kitchen was bigger than Grandma Carol’s, which was saying something. But from the moment we arrived, I didn’t like it. I tugged at Mom’s hand, whispering, "I don’t like it here, Mom. Let’s look somewhere else."

I wrinkled my nose at the echoing hallways. It smelled too clean—like nobody ever spilled juice or hid under the bed. "Maddie, be good. Look how big this bedroom is—you could have your own room!"

She opened the door wide, but I shook my head stubbornly, my face showing how much I disliked it.

I crossed my arms and dug in my heels, shaking my head until Mom sighed. My parents exchanged awkward glances with the realtor and said they’d think about it.

The realtor’s smile faltered, but she handed Dad a glossy pamphlet anyway. Once we left, Dad carried me in his arms. "Maddie really doesn’t like it here?"

He tried to bounce me playfully, but I just pouted. "I don’t like it," I replied immediately.

He grinned at Mom, almost proud. "Then we’ll keep looking. There are plenty of houses."

He tousled my hair, making me giggle despite myself. "You’re just spoiling her," Mom said, shaking her head with a smile.

But she smiled too, her eyes soft. My parents decided to get something to eat first.

We found a mom-and-pop diner tucked into a side street, the kind with faded Formica tables and a bell over the door. The waitress called everyone ‘hon’ and the sweet tea came in mason jars sweating on the table. They took me into a narrow side street, the road bumpy and hard to walk.

Dad parked the car and carried me over potholes, pointing out the faded murals on the brick walls. Dad carried me, looking around at the scattered, older houses.

He muttered about needing a paintbrush and a miracle to fix them up. When we reached a certain old house, I squirmed to get down.

I wriggled free, curiosity pulling me forward. Once my feet hit the ground, I ran straight over to take a look.

The front steps creaked, and a stray cat darted under the porch. I didn’t know why, but I really liked this place.

Maybe it was the big oak in the yard or the way the windows caught the light. "Mom, Dad, I want to live here!"

My parents were startled. "Maddie, this place is too rundown. It’s not even as nice as our house back home. Wouldn’t you rather live in a new one?"

Mom’s voice was worried, but I shook my head, hugging the porch post. "No, no, I just want to live here!"

A weathered sign on the door read 'For Sale.'

It was hand-painted, the phone number barely visible. Mom tried coaxing me for a long time, but I just wouldn’t budge.

I plopped down on the steps, arms crossed, digging in like a Georgia mule with nowhere else to be. Dad had no choice but to call the number on the sign.

He sighed, pulling out his cell, glancing at Mom as if to say, “Well, here goes nothing.” The owner, hearing there was a buyer, rushed over in excitement.

She pulled up in an old sedan, keys jangling, a hopeful look on her face. When the door opened, we saw a big yard—though it was piled with junk.

Old bicycles, a cracked kiddie pool, and stacks of cinderblocks littered the grass. Inside, the house was even more dilapidated.

Wallpaper peeled, and the floorboards creaked under every step. My parents really didn’t like it, but the more I saw, the more I liked it.

I peeked into every closet, climbed onto the window seat, and imagined all the secret forts I could build. I clung to Mom’s leg. "I just want to live here. I really like it."

My voice was quiet but certain, my eyes pleading. I bit my lip, scared they’d say no, but hoping they’d see what I saw. Mom looked at Dad, troubled. After all, I’d always been a well-behaved child and rarely insisted on anything.

It was rare for me to dig in my heels. Dad looked at my eager little face and made up his mind. "We’ll buy it! If my daughter likes it, we’ll buy it! At worst, we’ll save up and buy another one later!"

He shrugged, grinning as if the decision was no big deal, but I saw his hand tremble just a little as he signed the offer. Mom didn’t object after hearing this.

She squeezed my hand and smiled, her eyes wet but happy. The owner, afraid we’d change our minds, offered a rock-bottom price and quickly completed the paperwork.

We signed everything on the trunk of the owner’s car, ink smudging under our sweaty hands. Dad’s laugh cracked, and Mom wiped her eyes, but nobody said a word about it. With the deed in hand, the three of us stared at each other in disbelief.

Dad whooped, Mom hugged me, and I bounced in circles on the weed-choked grass, already dreaming of our new life.